


Potterotica

by Elle Gray (Elle_Gray)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Erotica, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, Masturbation, Mystery, Other, Smut, Voyeurism, wanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-08
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2020-10-12 08:51:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20561597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elle_Gray/pseuds/Elle%20Gray
Summary: The first story, and you could barely call it that, had appeared in the communal bathroom overnight. It was stuck to the mirror, one above each sink, like it was expected people might casually read it while brushing their teeth.Except, there was nothing casual about reading explicit erotica in a communal bathroom while shoving a lubricated brush in and out of your mouth.Blaise had been the first to find it, or rather, to gleefully admit that he had. He’d burst into the common room in his pants to declare, 'There’s fucking porn in the bathroom!'Someone's writing smut and signing it with Harry's name. Hermione isn't buying it, and she has a plan to expose the true author. She also has her hand in her pants in a wardrobe.A (ridiculous) response to AO3s (valid) new co-creator rules.





	Potterotica

The first story, and you could barely call it that, had appeared in the communal bathroom overnight. It was stuck to the mirror, a copy above each sink, like it was expected people might casually read it while brushing their teeth.

Except, there was nothing casual about reading explicit erotica in a communal unisex bathroom while shoving a lubricated brush in and out of your mouth.

Blaise had been the first to find it, or rather, to gleefully admit that he had. He’d burst into the common room in his expensive-looking pants to declare, 'There’s fucking porn in the bathroom!' He was grinning like he’d discovered Christmas.

There were only a few of them in there at that hour, and no one had been in that bathroom yet. Harry had slept on the couch, and had only just woken up when Hermione and Lisa came down to get tea. 

Neville had got up typically early to water the plants and had used the upstairs loo. 'What?' was all he said. 

'Porn?' Hermione said, picturing dirty pictures torn from Muggle magazines, and honestly not that surprised. She'd had ideas about what it would be like to share bathroom facilities with all the other eighth years, and this wasn't so far off the mark. 'Like, pictures?'

Blaise smirked and shook his head, a droplet of white foam still clinging to his lip. He still had his toothbrush in his hand. Hermione appreciated his commitment to regular brushing. She tried not to notice he was shirtless and obviously getting regular exercise too.

'It's writing. Like a dirty letter. It's fucking wild. Come  _ on,' _ he said and walked back down the corridor. Hermione tried not to notice the long lines of his leg muscles, or the way his boxers shifted around his arse as he walked.

Lisa was the first to get up and follow him. Harry looked like he was thinking about it but ultimately lacked the energy to commit. Neville seemed a tiny bit weirded out by the whole thing. Hermione classified it as research and followed Lisa.

The piece of parchment was a standard size, neat cursive in black ink, duplicated four times. The words were correctly spelled and showed a vast vocabulary. They had a good understanding of the English language. They didn't hold back the details. They'd clearly had sex before, or at least  _ watched _ a few times. They might've been gay, or considering it. They were  _ not, _ however, the undersigned. Hermione knew that for a fact. The handwriting was wrong, the spelling too accurate, the acts too graphic. "Harry J. Potter" had not really written this… this  _ smut. _

Which begged the question, who did, and why did they sign it with Harry's name?

*

The second story appeared above the tea station two days later, after the general hubbub and Harry's personal ire had died down — just in time for the weekend, prime gossip time. Lisa had made her own copy this time, since there was only one piece of parchment above the kettle and she didn't want to lose access to it. Or so she said. Hermione thought maybe she was hoarding them for later use; Lisa wasn't timid about expressing her approval of the whole thing.

This one was found by Neville, up to water the plants again. He told Hermione he tried to vanish it, then burn it, but couldn't. He didn't even manage to get it off the wall before Harry saw it and went apeshit again and spent the better part of Saturday sulking by the lake and refusing to talk about it. At least he was still accepting food. He came back up for dinner and everyone kept shooting glances at him from behind their chicken wings, wondering if it was really him.

Hermione talked to him about making a formal statement, declaring the stories to be “not his own work”. Declaring that he wasn't in the habit of writing smutty tales at all, but especially not posting them in public places, detailing his nighttime activities. Harry politely declined. Said he wasn't going to dignify any of it with a response. Hermione pointed out that sulking by the lake all day was a response and suggested a trip to Hogsmeade the next day. He had taken a breath to retaliate and realised she was right and joined her and Ron the next morning for breakfast and a walk into town.

He had bought himself a thick, red, self-inking quill at the stationers and a large bag of chocolates and made a conscious effort to look relaxed throughout their excursion.

When the third story appeared above the fireplace on Monday morning, he got out his quill and wrote a thick, red,  _ "YOU WISH" _ under the signature. He didn't sulk at all that day.

Wednesday tested him again, a tale of frantic rutting in an alcove that ended with a splash of come against the castle walls and he annotated it with his own words:  _ "As if you could make me come". _

Friday evening saw their windows overlooking the lake plastered with a new tale, featuring the couch below and a generous amount of lube. Harry had glared at it for a solid minute before slashing his red quill through the word ' _ sated _ ' and adding  _ 'disappointed' _ instead.

On Saturday morning, there was no new parchment, no new tale, just an addendum, in spiky black ink:  _ 'I'll try harder next time, lover.' _

Harry spent the day down at the lake again.

A week or so passed. More accounts of real or imagined sex were posted around the eighth year suite. Harry responded to every one, and more often than not, the spiky black hand came back to leave their mark again. Harry fumed softly now.

Hermione was curious; she'd seen the change in his demeanor. She thought perhaps, of everyone,  _ he _ knew who was writing these things and signing his name to them. The last one had been different — the two protagonists cuddled in the afterglow, naked limbs wrapped around one another, low murmurs of promises made in the dark the most intimate act portrayed on the page. At this one he frowned and left no note. Just a question mark, stark and bright against the white.

Hermione made a plan. 

It wasn't a noble plan, it wasn't even that clever. She didn't know if it would work. She didn't even know if she could do what was necessary to  _ make _ it work. She'd never been good at staying awake all night.

Over the duration of the whole thing, she'd deduced a few things. The poster, and presumably writer, of the stories was always gone by the time Neville got up at five thirty. The last people up tended to go to bed at midnight. Harry would usually manage three to four hours of sleep before getting up again at two or three. He'd never been the first to discover the parchment, even the time it'd been charmed to hover over his head while he slept, curled up on the couch. So that meant she only really needed to be awake between maybe three and five thirty. She'd go down at two, just in case. 

She set an alarm with her wand and went to bed early. She waited. She barely slept under the weight of her anticipation. At two, her heart pounded at the chime and she was wide awake in seconds. She pulled on her navy blue trackie bottoms and one of Ron's huge, faded black hoodies to hide her better in the darkness. She looked at her pink socks and pulled dark ones on over the top. She grabbed her wand.

The corridor was silent, her footsteps charmed to not give her away. She crept downstairs, stopping every few steps to listen. Crouching at the entrance to the common room, she heard only her own breath. Harry wasn't even there yet. She straightened up. Padded into the middle of the room. Looked around in the dimness for a rectangular flash of white that would indicate she was too late. Nothing.

The plan, then. In the corner of the room was a wardrobe, tall and filled with large cushions and blankets, the shelf at the top relegated to board games and packs of cards. She went toward it, flicked her wand and the door opened without a squeak. Another flick and she shrunk half the cushions down, making space for herself, and crawled in. 

She waited, weighing possibilities, peeking through the crack in the door, mulling over whether Harry would be mad at her for meddling. She thought he seemed to know who the mystery writer was. She could just ask him. Maybe it was a secret for a reason. She should trust his judgement better. She shouldn't betray him like this just because she was curious. She decided to go back to be—

There was a noise, over on the other side of the room, where the door was. 

She had expected someone to come from upstairs, and even if their final destination wasn't the common room, she’d reasoned that they'd likely pass through. She hadn’t thought they’d come from outside. She hadn’t thought she’d be in any danger of getting caught. She hadn't considered if the wardrobe might be their chosen canvas tonight. She cursed her own impulsiveness. 

The door to the common room swung wide. From here she could see it perfectly, though she hadn't thought that would be important. There were two figures moving there, both male, in long dark cloaks, one slightly taller than the other. They stood close. The door closed behind them with a click. The space between them narrowed to nothing as their shapes melded in the darkness. She heard a gasp, a gentle hum of pleasure and the unmistakable sound of kissing. Hermione felt the telltale tingle of arousal flare low in her gut. 

Their sounds were loud in the silence, heaving breath and soft groans and the rustle of fabric. The hushed whisper of a zip, the wetness of a kiss. Then there was space between them again, and a reaching hand, dragging the other to the couch, collapsing back on it to lie flat, still pulling their partner closer. The hood slid away, and Hermione's best friend came into view, reaching up for another kiss from his mystery lover. There was a split second of doubt in which Hermione imagined Harry really was writing these stories, perhaps unknowingly, perhaps drugged or enchanted, before the obvious truth sprang forth. This other man was the one writing them. 

It explained the timing, it explained Harry's anger but inaction, it explained his mood, his confusion, his thick, red quill and the lonely question mark.

And what a way to end a lovers' quarrel… public declarations of lust and care and wanting. Of missing another, of pining for them. Loving the memories of them.

Of… of proving how little fanfare there would be if Harry ever openly declared his sexuality. Cunning. How very Slytherin. 

The couple on the couch grew louder, more urgent, and Hermione recognised her friend's voice, his timbre, the sound of his cries. She relished the other voice more, focused on it, attached her growing arousal to  _ that _ man, blamed him for the heat pooling in her lap. She let her hands unclench, sliding one between her legs. The other curled unbidden around her breast, muscle memory.

She thought back to the first story, the passionate acts within it, and the second, third. Wondered if she might see one of those stories acted out tonight or if their public position might dissuade them from undressing. She squeezed her hand right around herself and sighed. She hoped and hated what she wanted. In the background, someone growled his annoyance at something, and she watched Harry's trousers pulled down to his knees, then Harry himself reach forward and do the same to his partner. Hermione saw the pale bobbing lance of someone else's cock and resigned herself to her own needs. 

She got one look at Harry pushing his partner up onto their knees and diving low to take that pale cock in his mouth and she averted her eyes, staring at the grey wall of the cupboard. She still heard the other boy though, a desperate gasp as Harry set to his task, and a rhythmic  _ "oh, oh" _ she used to time her heavy strokes, pushing her fingers against the thick fabric of her trousers, wondering if she dared slide them inside and risk being caught with a wet hand and stinking of her own arousal.

A shift in tone from outside the cupboard drew her eyes back to the scene and she saw Harry lie back on the couch, arms lax above his head, waiting. His partner was gasping for breath, one hand wrapped around the back of the couch, one holding his own erection, tight around the base. He let go of the couch and leaned forward. The black shape of his hood fell over Harry's lap and Hermione heard her friend hum his approval, deep in his throat. 

She'd heard him, in the tent, last year, both of them at different times. She knew. She wondered if they'd ever heard her. With only one wand between them they'd relied on bathroom doors and discretion in the absence of silencing charms. She wondered if they'd ever listened on purpose too.

When Harry's breathing shifted, she gave up her own restraint and silently moved her hand, finding the elastic waist of her trackie bottoms and pushing her hand underneath and down, down, til her fingers brushed over her natural curls and slid between the wet folds of her flesh. Why did she even bother restraining herself? No one could argue with the slippery evidence of her interest.

She set herself a light, flickering rhythm, her fingertips barely skimming her swollen clit, the need for quiet and stillness an added challenge, a thrill. Outside, Harry lost his ability to withhold his voice and swore into the darkness.

'Do you take it back?' his partner whispered.

'What?'

'You said,' the voice paused and Harry gasped at whatever he'd chosen to do with his tongue instead.  _ '"As if you could make me come".' _

_ Oh. _

'You still haven't,' Harry whispered back.

'But do you believe I could? Now?'

He gasped again, a soft hiss.  _ 'Yes.' _

'Do you want me to?'

'Only if—' Harry cut himself off. 'Only if it's not the last time you do it.'

There was a moment of quiet, a rustle of fabric. A sigh. Hermione's thoughts flashed and snippets of information connected and blazed in her mind. Things started to make sense. Her hand stilled.

'You know what I want, Potter. I won't promise you anything until you promise me I won't be a secret.'

'I don't want the attention.'

'But you want  _ my _ attention. And no one cares if you're bi. I proved that.'

'Everyone was talking about it.'

'Yes, and not once did anyone utter the words, "ew, he's gay", like you feared. They said, "fuck that's hot, I wish that would happen to me".'

Whoever he was, he wasn't wrong, but Harry was stubborn. There was a silence, and Hermione hoped they'd get back to touching each other so she could do the same. She twitched her fingers and her body responded with readiness, even though the slickness on her fingers was beginning to cool. 

'Fine,' Harry hissed. 'I'll be your stupid boyfriend. And if it's shit, I'm leaving school and becoming a hermit.'

'I'll come with you, we can hermit together.'

Harry sighed, resigned. 'We'd just end up fucking all day.'

'Sounds good,’ the other voice teased. ‘Wanna start now?'

Harry reached out a hand and grabbed the other man's cloak, pulling on it, tugging him down til they were lying flush. The hood slid back and the glow of platinum coloured hair stopped Hermione's breath short.

_ Malfoy? _

It almost made sense. 

As they kissed, and writhed, and grunted softly on the couch, Hermione came to terms with it. As Malfoy started to grind down, long rhythmic strokes, she forgot why she cared and let her fingers slide deep down and find the tight empty heat, filling herself up.

She saw him shift, pushing their shirts and jumpers up and taking both their cocks in one hand. Harry threw his head back and groaned as Malfoy frotted hard into his fist and Hermione pictured it, close up, two hard cocks jammed in a small, wet space and she pushed another finger inside herself, her wrist on an angle she'd regret later but the need to feel fullness too great and the haze of pleasure too strong.

She heard their voices, in tandem now, rising in volume, lowering in pitch til they were gasping and groaning at once, a pathetic, needy pile of boys, so obviously besotted and so, so close to coming, to making a mess of Malfoy's long slender fingers. So close to having come spread everywhere against their bellies and their cocks. She squeezed her eyes shut and brought her other hand down to her clit, not wanting to have them finish before her, wanting to time it just right so they all came together. It was less perverse somehow, if it was mutual in one way at least.

She let herself go, and as Malfoy cried out she felt the first crash of her own orgasm. Harry followed with an uttered curse,  _ "Fuck, Draco." _ And she convulsed again, and again as the depth and desperation of their voices filled the room, and her own quiet gasping filled the wardrobe and she quivered on the come down, ignoring the swift wash of shame. It wasn't her fault they'd had sex in front of her, after all.

It was half an hour til they went up to bed and another ten minutes til she followed. She was in no state to sleep, which was fine; she had something she had to do. 

*

The next day, at breakfast in the Great Hall, along with the platter of toast, there appeared a piece of parchment, with blue ink and a few paragraphs of text. Ron was the first to pick it up. 

'That's a bold new move,' he stated and he began to read. ‘Outside the common room this time. Must have the elves on side.’

Hermione worked on keeping her expression calm and politely curious. Harry and Malfoy, sitting next to each other in a brave display of solidarity, looked at each other, baffled.

Ron read to the bottom and handed the paper to Harry, cheeks flushed. 'I guess we all owe you congratulations on your new boyfriend,' he said, shifting in his seat. 

The eighth year table was silent. Everyone was looking at Harry. And then at Malfoy, slowly going crimson beside him.

'Thanks,' Malfoy said, recovering himself first. 'Your support means a lot, Weasley. Never would've expected you'd be anything but decent about it, but Harry had his doubts.' There was an underlying tone of challenge in his voice. 

Hermione smiled. 'Well, I think it's wonderful.'

'You do?' Harry looked baffled.

'You kinda saved our lives, mate,' Neville said. 'Would be right shit of us to be against whatever makes you happy.'

'Yeah, okay. Cool. Thanks.'

'Toast, then, Potter?' Malfoy picked up a triangle of wholegrain. 'To us?'

Ron grabbed a piece and raised it. 'Here, here.'

There were giggles around the tables as everyone picked up pieces of toast, holding them out and smashing them together as they joined in the chorus of well wishes.

Over it all, Harry's eyes slid over to meet Hermione's and he smiled, bashful, still a little confused, unsure.  _ "Thank you?" _ he mouthed, eyebrows raised, questioning. 

She shrugged, but kept quiet. Again.


End file.
